Ken Boogaloo, Sub-Conscious, Karim, Yeshua DapoED, L.I.F.E. Long, and Many Styles Freestyle (A Long Rhyme Coming: The 1999 to 2002 Sessions Pt. 1) Eddie Ill & D.L. (Ft. I Am Many, Karim, Ken Boogaloo, L.I.F.E. Long, Sub-Conscious (of Sight Beyond Light) & Yeshua DapoED)

[Intro: Ken Boogaloo]
Check it out, one time. Yo, Big Boogaloo, the Wee Bee Foolish crew. One time, check it out, uh, uh, uh

[Verse 1: Ken Boogaloo]
Consider me the epitome of what New York City be
Look in my eyes and you see Brooklyn vividly
You want to compete with my fleet? You must be kidding me
I’ll fly your dome from BK to fucking Italy
Ken Boogaloo pull strings like Bo Diddley
My flavor’s Major. Y’all niggas is Little League
So I suggest you just slide to the side
Take heed, take notes as I provide
Them vibes that you need to get you open wide
Over track I glide. You know my flow is live
You need to go and buy my joint and ride
Around town, knocking the sound, bobbing your crown
My crew’s locking it down. Ain’t no stopping it now
A bunch of emcees up in here, rocking the house

[Interlude 1: Sub-Conscious]
Uh. Wha-what, wha-what? A-wha-what, wha-what? Check it. Yo

[Verse 2: Sub-Conscious]
Yo, Eddie Ill, I’m ready, spill
I’m on the D.L. Fuck sea shells
Ayyo, my oral spit coral up in pieces
This be the deep-dish thesis. Sub-Con
Get scripted. What? I’ve developed
And framed the mindstates before my mood gets shifted
I’ll sift my thoughts ‘til they’re liquid, extract
The citrus for sippage and ship it upstream
To flush through the aqueducts the fiends lust for
Pillage hillsides with an image like Mount Rushmore
I got a face for my oasis. I’ll spill
Something distilled and distinguished. The ill linguist
Serve contenders like Martina Hingis
The wordsmith emerge script up through your visions
Abruptly with volcanic rhythms. I’ll laminate
Your minds with the magma, smother contaminated
Surfaces with new crust and bust merciless like
Ed McMellon and his peoples did Diallo with
Hollow-tipped descriptions worth full scholarships
To all them Ivy League colleges. Polish my thoughts like
A thirty-page thesis, put footnotes and acknowledgements
Never bite no one. That’s word to Conan
O’Brien—be up Late Night, frying my brain cells
Modern like Tame and El, digging through my wick
For artifacts to yoke cluttered thoughts into cardiac
Speed shutter scenery, quick flicks. Sharpen up
To spit the hardest, niggas, like diamond-studded drill bits
I’m flooded with hybrid styles that’s undiscovered
We way beneath the oceans and promotion budgets
It’s Sub-Conscious, I’m unsurfaced, unseen
Like true freedom for blacks and AIDS vaccines
What?